


Halving

by momomasoch



Category: Glee
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Slut Shaming, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22445557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momomasoch/pseuds/momomasoch
Summary: A half-dozen of lovers ends only in halved hearts.
Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Halving

**Author's Note:**

> Blaine has a harem of six Kurts, one from each season. Each Kurt, as they are a little bit different from each other, give different levels of consent.

Each Kurt is envious of the multiples, which is less of a harem, and more of a polygmic knot of unhappy lovers, groaning and grousing when another is picked.

One is the smallest of them all: tender in every place, short and hairless, infant-pudging at his stomach and boy-breasts. “I’m not gay.” He mumbles through a milk-soft teeth, wriggling loosely, between a mouth stuffed with Blaine’s paprika-red, hard cock, adorned with a thicket of dark pubic growth, as if silk plumage, swallowing the salt-pearls of come one by one—jeered on by the others: all sets of chestnut locks and pastry-pale limbs and pairs of strawberry blushes.

For two, sex begins bent over a desk: hearkening back to forbidden lessons between traditional academics. Buttocks smacked as red as a lacquered apple, by an open palm and wide-spread fingers and boxer-split knuckles. The uniform tie and cardigan repurposed for bondage, tied ‘round two wrists, as his identical brothers count the spankings.

Valentine hues of powder-puffs—both nipples pert and erect, pinched by wooden clothing-pins, the laundry left sodden amongst the grasses. “I’m not feeling romantic.” The third Kurt protests, “He confessed to me; I didn’t accept!” Blaine twists the pin, eliciting a muffled cry. “Slut.” The fourth calls the third.

Four is starting to sprout, at last: prickle-patches of stiff hair beneath the chin, at the pockets of his arms, between the thighs—shins lengthening, jaw losing a bit of its childish round, until the little cherry-boy-blossom has unfurled his raw petals, a few inches past Blaine’s own height, strangling the sunflower of his sun. Kurt ought to be reminded of the flavor of the earth again: the fourth drags his spittle-wet tongue against the sole of Blaine’s shoe. When four learns of Blaine's indiscretions, he refuses physical intimacy altogether. Corrected by the efforts of two: the cherubic school-boy, a choir angel, whose ginger-warm mouth and baby-plush lips are simple to cajole apart.

Engaged! As if there had never been such a romance, the ring is cherished by five. The fifth is begrudged by all, but especially by first and second: still the youngest boys, jejune and syrup-bitter; one denying his feelings entirely, and two spilling his tears against the handsome apple-wood of the study-hall seat, the bittersweet confession of the classroom. "I wouldn't have said yes at all." The first complains, and the second—merely swallows his brass buttons, scratching love letters against the blue-lined margins of his homework. 

The ring still glimmers on the finger of six, accompanied by wedding tails. Barely out from childhood, adventuring into adulthood. As a husband and a spouse, he is the eldest, who has learnt how to present his body to match Blaine's whims for the pornographic, rather than the innocent eroticism of the previous boys. Such accomplishments have earned him vinegar and salt and citrus from his identical peers, but also, the petting of a fond and familiar hand.

And which of them, they beg, is most loved? Blaine says to all, and each, and every version: "You, Kurt—it's always you." He murmurs, with classical charm—stroking the trembling fingers of one: flustered, confused, so novice and new—pressing a fond kiss to the injured mouth of two: the slight odor of cotton infirmary sheets, patterns of blackberry bruises against cream flesh—guiding practiced fingers further down the dimpling of the coccyx, as three aches for affection—fucking four into the bedding until he is sore and dotting pink, at the thought of independence—wooing five with promises of the altar and oaths—and six, welcoming him home.


End file.
